The CouldHaveBeen King
by algie888
Summary: A fifteen year old Arya Stark is lost in an abyss of pain. Her siblings dead, her kingdom gone, and the ever looming threat of Daenerys over the Jade Sea. The only way to ensure she - and Winterfell - remain safe is to marry... Heavily AU
1. ARYA

**A/N - Well, my first ASoIaF fic. It's really AU, by the way. So if things don't make sense, just drop me a PM. Special thanks to my good friend AJWOLFDOG for being my Beta - props to you, dear! **

**Disclaimer - I don't own A Game of Thrones, or A Song of Ice and Fire. If I did, I would make Viserys and Joffrey meet, just for the heck of it! :)**

* * *

><p><em>Welcome to Westeros. Many lords, seven houses, and the king on his iron throne. War has ravaged the land that had never been truly peaceful, and those that survive are now victims of the great illness - the Pestilence. <em>

_Boys as young as twelve are being called to arms, to fight. You are either with the king, or against. But, the question is, which king? _

_Joffrey Baratheon sits, overseeing all on his iron throne, his mother hissing advice into his ears. Renly Baratheon is lost - not dead, but merely lost. It is said that he is amassing an army to storm King's Landing, but rumours told by washerwomen are not always to be trusted. Some support Jon Snow, the bastard lord of Ned Stark. They say that Lord Jon has more royal blood than Joffrey Baratheon himself. _

_But the Stark line has failed. The war is almost won. All that is left of the once great house of the wolf was a girl, a mother, and a bastard. The others - the maiden, the King, the children, had fallen prey to the lions. Begging forgiveness and surrender, the two remaining - Arya and Catelyn - have been taken to King's Landing. The innocent girl who wanted to be a warrior is a girl no longer, but fifteen and flowering into a beauty. Not guests as such. More like prisoners of war._

* * *

><p>Arya squeezed her eyes tight, the tears burning hot against her eyelids. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't show weakeness - not now, and not ever. What would Syrio Forel say - the girl who could duel with him breaking down over a simple matter. But it wasn't simple. Matters of the heart rarely are.<p>

The kerchief she was wringing to the inch of its life gave a sudden tear, ripping in half in her hands. She glared at it, throwing it to the floor in disgust. Even the things that seem the strongest must break. Like Father. Like Nymeria. Like Winterfell.

She often wondered how her siblings had died, and what they had done to anger the gods so. Arya herself had killed people, serving boys and people in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was her fault Lady was dead, and Arya was the blame of so many problems. What evil, what sin had Sansa commited to fall to such a grisly end, what had Bran ever done, what had Rickon ever done?

Robb had died in battle, they were told. But only so much can be conveyed through a letter, and Arya had never been one for writing. Their Lord of Winterfell had perished on the field of battle, but it was not to be a soldier's death. Robb lay dying in his tent, having been poisoned the night before by a covert Lannister soldier, who was a lion in wolf's armour. Arya wept for a fortnight, unable to cope with the loss. And it was Robb that had forced her to give up. She had been told by a messenger that, if she were to go to King's Landing, she would be spared. She would be a guest. The letter had been signed by her mother, with the Tully seal. Arya could not bear not being there for her siblings, for her mother, and turned, with a heavy heart, away from the Wall.

Sansa was found at the bottom of a ditch near the Eyrie of the Arryns, her face ripped but dress intact. It was impossible to tell her red Tully hair from her face, her clothes, her skin, the snow. Her blue eyes were staring, and her mouth twisted into what the Septa would have called a Lady's Smile. Sansa was buried in an unmarked grave in the Vale, under the orders of Petyr Baelish. Arya remembered the ceremony well, the clashing colours of black, her eyes being surprisingly wet for a girl who was supposed to have hated her sister, King Joffrey's eyes surprisingly dry for a boy who was supposed to have been married to her. Sansa's grave was marked by a weeping willow, and a single plaque to bear her name.

They discovered Bran not long after Sansa's funeral, his brown hair floating in the Jade sea, the red stains in the water long since washed away. He wore the clothes of a Tyrell squire, but the sigil of a direwolf on his cloak brought her mother to tears. Summer was no where to be seen, and all proof that Bran even had a Direwolf was a lock of grey fur strung on a leather thong around his neck. Arya was not there to watch her brother's burial at a beach, having not been told. Bran had been a fugitive, and Arya was not to be seen, she only learnt what had happened when she found her mother sobbing in the arms of Littlefinger, moaning the names of her children over and over.

Rickon came as a shock, because he had been so close. Rickon was being brought to them by soldiers of the House Brax, one of the Lannister allies. He was to rejoin his family, his only family. But the Brax soldiers were ambushed - not by outlaws, or Stark warriors, or even Wildlings. It was the Pestilence that was the end of Rickon, and of Shaggydog. The prince of Stark was buried in a potter's field in an unmarked grave, and the Stark men were still searching for him.

"Arya?" Her mother's weary voice drifted to her from the doorway, trembling with a tired heart and no hope. "Arya, dear. You look beautiful."

Arya's head whirled around at that comment, her eyes blazing. "I don't want to look beautiful!" she snapped, glaring at Catelyn. At her mother's hurt look, Arya drew her legs up to her chest, hugging her knees. "I don't want to look beautiful. I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am a direwolf. I want to look deadly," she gestured to the dress she was wearing, which fell hang limply on her fifteen year old frame. "I want to look like a warrior. Not a little girl."

Her mother stroked her hair, bone-thin fingers running through brown hair. "But that is what you are, my darling. You may be a Stark of Winterfell, but who is to say you cannot be a pretty Stark, eh?" Catelyn smiled thinly, elicting a matching one from her daughter. "Not much longer, my sweetling. We sent word to Jon, remember? He will come, and will save us with his many men."

Arya turned away, "But that was weeks ago. How do we know that Jon has not abandoned the Watch, or broken his oath, or dead?"

"Don't." Catelyn whispered, clutching her daughte's hand. "Don't. Isn't it better to dream?"

"Not if your dreams get crushed." Arya responded darkly. Catelyn was struck by how much her daughter had grown up.

"Just hold out a bit longer, my darling. Just a few more months." Catelyn stroked the back of her daughter's hand with her thumb. Arya closed her eyes, imagining their rescue._ Jon will come with an army of thousands, destroy Joffrey and his white cloaks and his gold cloaks, and then Jon will ruffle her hair. And they go home, munching on honey cakes and lemon cakes and hot pies._

"Come," Catelyn said, giving her daughter a thin-lipped smile. "We must go to the throne room."

Arya's eyes widened, and her face contorted into one of pain. "To... to meet him?" she stammered, her eyes begging her mother to stay. She cursed herself for being afraid of Joffrey - fear cuts deeper than swords.

Catelyn nodded, taking her daughter's hand. "We should not keep him waiting for long. You know how he is." Mother and child stood, and Catelyn lead her to the doorway, out of the room.

"People say that patience is a virtue." Arya muttered, glaring at the golden thread of her slippers.

"Yes. Well." Her mother laughed quietly, and smiled again. "You'd best not mention that to his face, sweetling."

Arya shrugged, "Father always told the truth," she declared, glaring straight ahead.

"And look where that got him." Catelyn snapped.

Arya's head flew up, staring at her mother. What did she just say? Catelyn's face was burning scarlet - shame, or anger? - as she glared at the walls. Glancing back at her daughter, she softened. "My darling, what I mean is-"

"That father deserved it?" Arya cried, swallowing thickly. Had her last ally turned against her? Her own mother?

"No!" Catelyn exclaimed, and glanced around nervously for guards. "Believe me, sweetling. No one deserved it less than your father did." She breathed in deeply, summoning her courage. "I lost your brothers, your father and your sister to honesty." Catelyn gripped Arya's shoulders, almost too tight, but Arya didn't care. "I can't lose you too."

Arya threw her arms around her mother, feeling the hot tears stream unbidden from her eyes. The unfamiliar silks, so different from the warm Winterfell wool, scrunched up in her fists. "You won't lose me," she whispered. "As long as I don't lose you."

Catelyn pulled away, and ran her fingers across her daughter's cheek. "I will never leave you, Arya. We have to stay together." She gripped Arya's hand so tight, her knuckles white against her skin. "The last of the Starks."  
>In the silence, mother and daughter reminisced of a simpler time, of a long summer and family, of direwolves and true kings. The past was always so close, but always so far. Arya squared her shoulders, squeezing her eyes tight.<p>

Maybe... Maybe being a lady could work for her. A battle tactic. A spy. Arya blinked in surprise, gripping her mother's hand even tighter in her excitement. She could get the King to trust her. And she, in turn, would destroy him from the inside. She would be tactical, she would make him scared. And fear cuts deeper than swords.

Arya smiled at her mother, rubbing her tears away with the back of her hand. "Come, mother." Arya whispered. "We must not keep the King waiting."

Catelyn said nothing, still embraced by the memories of her husband and family, and only snapped out of her dreaming when an oaken door was slammed in her face. She turned to the guard standing outside it, glaring at him. "Allow me entrance," she barked.

King Joffrey's orders. No one but the Stark girl in, no one but the Stark girl out."

Catelyn's glare peatered to an end, and she sighed. She strained her ears, the wisps of conversation meeting them. She had to be with Arya, but all she could do was wait as her daughter bargained for her life.  
>The stories of the throneroom had not been exaggerations. Gold and scarlet tapestries lined the stone walls, marble pillars, the iron throne. The contrast of light and dark, warmth and cold, put Arya back into the mind of Winterfell, and she nearly tripped over the hem of her white dress. White for pure, for young, for innocent. White for lies.<p>

The king lounged on his chair, his eyes watching her every move. Maybe he should have been born into the house of the hawks, Arya thought, unbidden. She curtsied slowly, almost mockingly, eyes never leaving Joffery's. It was silent, the only noise being that of Arya's heavy breathing, the single thing that betrayed her fear.  
>Silence reigned until Joffrey stood. "Arya Stark of Winterfell," he said, rolling the words in his mouth, testing them, tasting them. Arya narrowed her eyes at him, which he chose to ignore. "You have been brought here to escape the wars of the Seven Kingdoms, Kings Landing being under my protection." Joffrey paused, waiting for some reaction. But all Arya did was imagine the many ways she could kill him with his crown alone, her face betraying nothing but vacant boredom. Joffrey coughed, turning to his mother for advice. Cersei mearly gestured for him to continue. "You have been under our protection for a month, and your sister Sansa for longer. I believe it is time we are payed for this hospitatlity."<p>

That caught Arya off guard. "Pay?" she questioned, confused. Wasn't it a king's duty to aide people?

"Yes, pay," he snapped, irritated by her stupidity. "We are at war, Stark. We cannot afford to house thousands under the golden roof. Now, Stark. We will be forced to throw you out."

Arya's eyes widened, all thoughts of Jon's rescue shattering. Inside King's Landing they were protected, miserable, but protected. Outside, they had no where to go. "Please, my lord." Arya whispered, lowering her head to stare at the floor. "Please allow my mother and I to stay." _For a few months until our Jon kills you._

Joffrey laughed. "See, mother! The Wolf of Winterfell, the guards call this one. And I have the wolf eating from the palm of my hand."

Arya's cheeks burnt in shame, and she glared at Joffrey defiantly. He didn't seem to understand the emotion behind her look.

"You are to be wed to my brother, Tommen." Joffrey announced, "to join the banners of Lannister, Baratheon and Stark. The union will bring us great power over the Seven Kingdoms."

Arya's words stuck in her throat. Married. To Tommen. She couldn't picture a less ideal situation for herself. She'd rather be wed to Hot Pie. "What?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"Yes. To Tommen." Joffrey inspected his nails boredly, sitting back down on his iron throne. "You see, that way you would be under the protection of the Lannisters. You would be family. An Lions do not destroy their kin." Joffrey leaned back, watching her with a sadistic expression. "If you are to wed, Winterfell shall not be stormed, and your people shall be spared."

Winterfell, or her dignity. Bound forever to a boy half her age with an appetite for adventure smaller than Sansa's, or have Winterfell stormed by the Lions, and have every citizen within its walls destroyed. Her freedom, or her realm's?

Arya hung her head. There was only going to be one answer.


	2. CATELYN

She paced nervously, her footsteps resounding off the stone flags. She could hear murmured whispers slithering through the crack of the door, and she strained her ears to hear what they were saying. Cat glared at the guards, and repeated the words that ha d become her mantra over the past hour, "Let me through. She is my daughter."

The guard sighed, and tightened his grip on the pike, long since given up on responding.

"What is wrong, Cat?"

Catelyn spun, a quiet gasp of shock escaping her. "Petyr!" she cried, running to him, and throwing her arms around his neck, burying her head into the crook of his shoulder.

"Come, Cat!" Petyr laughed, hesitantly stroking the top of her head with his hand. "What has happened?"

"It's Arya," Catelyn whispered, pulling away from the man good enough to be her brother. "Arya is in the throne room."

Petyr started, his eyes flickering to the oak door in surprise. "What has she done to anger the King so?" he murmured, looking down at Cat. "I should go help her," he added, striding towards the guards. "The king would listen to me."

The guards glared at Petyr, their swords crossing as a barrier over the door. "Sorry, milord," grunted the first one. "But no one is allowed in." Catelyn drew a nervous breath. Petyr needed to go into the room - to defy him, Lord of the Coin and Hand of the King, would be madness.

Petyr scoffed, and gestured for them to move, "I am the Hand of the King. I will be allowed entrance."

The second guard licked his lips nervously. "Sorry, milord. But the king's orders." The two men exchanged nervous looks. Lord Petyr Baelish's temper was infamous, and the man's eyes were unamused, despite the lingering smile on his lips.

Petyr opened his mouth to speak, to defy the two lowly men, when the door creaked open. Catelyn rushed from behind him, embracing her daughter. "Arya, Arya!" she crooned, running her hands through her daughter's hair. Her hands clawed at Arya's back - for a moment, Catelyn thought that she had almost lost her daughter, the same way she had lost the rest of her children.

"What is it, child?" Petyr asked, and Catelyn pulled away to look at her daughter's face. The girl's eyes were brimming with tears, and her face frozen into one of pure guilt. She clutched desperately at her mother, squeezing her eyes shut. "Tell your mother," Petyr coaxed gently.

"I... I am to marry," Arya whispered, sniffling against her palm. Both Petyr and Catelyn turned the exact same shade of white, the blood draining from their faces.

"Not... the king, surely?" Catelyn stammered, smiling unsurely.

Arya blinked, "Seven hells, no!" she cried, with a slight laugh. "I am to wed Prince Tommen."

Both Catelyn and Petyr let out a breath they had not known they were holding, and Catelyn grasped her daughter's shoulders. "What hold do they have on you, Arya?" she demanded. "You are a Stark of Winterfell."

Arya looked down, "That's just it. I'm a Stark, and a Stark lady at that, too. I have blood right, Winterfell is my kingdom, its people are my people," she paused and turned away, "they are my responsiblity."

Catelyn felt Petyr's hand on her shoulder, consoling her. "Cat, if Arya does not accept Prince Tommen's offer, then Lannister troops will march into Winterfell, slaughtering all in their sight."

"Surely the guards-"

"Winterfell has been subject to a harsh winter, and supplies are low. They are not in the shape to hold of a full Lannister attack." Petyr spun Cat around, and she came face to face with him, his grey eyes pleading with her to see it his way."They will kill every man, every woman, and every child."

Arya scuffed her foot against the floor, feeling uncomfortable being privy to such an intimate moment. "I cannot have that for Winterfell," she said, having the final word on that matter. Arya turned, her slippers clacking against the stone steps, a guard shadowing her to her room.

Once Arya had passed through the archway, and out of Catelyn's sight, she turned to Petyr. "The poor girl," she whispered. "It was her dignity, or her conscience."

Petyr smiled softly at Catelyn, "She is strong, Cat. She will live through this war, and will flourish after."

Cat sighed, and looked away. "Like a poppy on a bloody field."

Petyr sensed her discomfort, and offered her his arm. "Come. Let us walk, pretend it's the gardens back at Tully House." Catelyn smiled at him, and placed her hand on the crook of his arm, allowing him to lead her through the gardens of King's Landing.

The only gardens that hadn't been war-ravaged, were those of the medicine women. The medicine women were nuns sworn not to new gods, nor old gods, but to people. It was their duty to serve, to help, to heal. The medical garden was the only beautiful thing in the whole of King's Landing, the last drop of pure water at the bottom of a choked up, dried up well.

"Here - daisies," Catelyn smiled, plucking one from the pot. "Remember when we used to crown you with these?" Nostalgia hit her - images of a put out boy, the only dark haired amidst fiery redheads, practically drowning in petals and flowers.

"And I would insist that I had hayfever just to get away from you flower-mad girls?" Petyr asked, laughed as he took it from her. "Yes, I remember. You snuck up on me one night, slinging chains and chains of flowers around me."

Catelyn chuckled, "And you believed your lie so much you actually thought you would die from touching the flowers!" she smiled at him, and then turned to look out across the balcony of the gardens. "Do you miss it?"

Petyr followed her gaze, "Miss what?"

"Our youth. The long summer." Catelyn gestured at the city in poverty, "The time before the war. The Fingers."

Petyr scoffed. "The Fingers were dull, and I am more than happy to get away from the blasted place. As for our youth?" Here he paused, thinking it over. "I miss being with you," he answered. "I miss spending time with you."

"I am here," Catelyn said. "You can spend all the time you want with me."

Petyr smiled at her, and Catelyn could not read the emotion behind it - humour? Spite? Malice? "What about you? What do you miss?"

Catelyn thought back to her past, back to the time when you could play in streams and douse your siblings. Being the newcomer, the black sheep, Petyr had always been dunked the most. He was not a swimmer like the rest of them - where they were fish in a stream, he was like a rock in water: prone to sinking. But in the trees he could excell, jumping from limb to limb, soaring through the air like an angel. Like a mockingbird.

"I miss not having to care," she admitted. "I miss being able to do whatever I want, I miss having fun." Catelyn glared at the stone flags. "I miss having a good k-" she stopped herself, remembering she was in the presence of the king's hand.

When she glanced at him, Petyr's face was stormy from her comment. Catelyn braced herself for a sharp tongue-lashing, but all she got was a quiet chuckle. She looked over at him in surprise. "What?" she snapped.

"Oh, Cat," he laughed. "You forget yourself. You could be hung for that."

"But you wouldn't allow that."

"No," Petyr said. "I wouldn't."

Silence reigned for several more minutes, each of them staring at something of indescribable beauty - her, the city at sunset. Him, Catelyn Stark. She was the one to break the pause. "What are we to do about Arya?"

Petyr shook his head, "She must marry Tommen, and we must thank our stars that she was not chosen for Joffrey."

Catelyn sighed, "The poor child has the weight of her world resting on her shoulders. I never wanted this for her," Cat whispered. "I never wanted this for anyone." Tears began to prick at the edge of her vision.

Petyr reached for her, her head leaning against his chest as the hot tears leaked out, unbidden. They both had an unspoken pact to not notice. "No one would wish this for their child," he soothed. "No one wants their child to grow up into a soldier, just because of war."

"But that's just it." Catelyn protested, breaking away from Petyr's embrace. "She is a soldier," she sighed. "A handful of years ago she would have chosen herself over Winterfell, and not have cared. But now she sacrifices herself."

Petyr pulled Catelyn close again, resting his chin on the top of her head, "War hardens everyone, Cat. We have all changed, some for worse and some for better."

Catelyn sighed, closing her eyes. "But, which one is Arya? Better, or worse?"

Petyr was silent, leaving her to think over her own answers. But, as usual, she reached no conclusion.

"I just want her to be happy," Catelyn whispered.

"Doesn't every mother want that for their child?" Petyr asked, rocking from side to side as he cradled her head in his hands.

"I suppose they do. But how can she be happy married to Tommen?" Catelyn demanded, pulling away from Petyr's embrace.

He spun her around, placing his hands on her shoulders again. "How can she be happy with the blood of her people on her conscience?"

Cat sighed, and tugged away from him again, crossing over the the balcony, spinning a daisy between her fingertips. She glanced below, staring at the people beneath her, Lannister people, but Lannister innocents. "War," she said. "War has taken my children from me." And with that, she disgarded the flower over the marble balcony. Catelyn spun on her heel, striding in the direction of her chambers.

Petyr lingered, watching the white bloom sail down to the ground. Within a few moments, it was crushed under an ox cart.


End file.
